


He dreams in colour

by imsfire



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016)
Genre: Backstory, Cassian needs a hug, Cassian's work undercover, Gen, Joreth Sward, Pre-Canon, Young Cassian, all-round bloody brilliant at everything Cassian, angst with a HE of sorts, brief mention of K2, minor Imperial OCs, recruiter Cassian, spy cassian, undercover as an Imperial officer cadet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-16
Updated: 2020-06-16
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:40:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24757150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imsfire/pseuds/imsfire
Summary: A year undercover as a teenaged officer cadet at the Imperial Academy...
Comments: 4
Kudos: 23





	He dreams in colour

**Author's Note:**

> For Day two of Celebrate Rogue One 2020; theme, Cassian and Monochrome.
> 
> I have no idea if this age group would have been in training as officer cadets, and I don't think we see any teenage midshipmen on Imperial vessels in canon, but for the purposes of the story I needed them to be really young.

He dreams in colour. Awake, the whole world is grey, and black, and white. Grey cadet uniforms, darker charcoal uniforms of the instructors; black walls and shuttles, black floors, black casings of droids; gleaming white armour of regular Stormtroopers on guard duty or marching past to their own training on the far side of the base. 

The lighting bleaches even the warmth of human faces; it turns fair skin pale grey, gelid as Sikanthian ivory, dulls brown skin and eyes till they are cold as steel.

This, monochrome and monotone, one sole monomania the focus to every waking moment, this – _Study study study be better than everyone else_ – this is Cadet Joreth Sward’s world.

Instructor Clinns reminds him daily that with his background, his breaking voice husky with the Outer Rim, he is doubly lucky to be here, and not in the barracks with the other common ‘troopers in their clanking whites. _Don’t you forget it, boy, I’m watching you, if you make one slip I’ll see to it you go right back where you came from._

He dreams of where he came from. The embroidery on Mamá’s festival clothes, zigzags and starbursts, stylised creatures twining along the hemline in red and purple, flower-pink, green and orange and azure. Papá’s best coat, the deep blue one with red braid, and the flowers in his glasshouse, grown with so much love for gifts and celebrations.

His quarters are small and harshly-lit, grey and black, desks and bunks; his room-mate turns away, grey eyes and grey face to the wall, each evening after mess. No friendliness, no will to socialise, only the fierce cold competition their trainers urge on them daily. _The officer next to you is always going to try and be better than you. You have to be better than him, always._

He dreams of friendship. Of brown eyes and warmly smiling lips, of kids in the snow-covered schoolyard, running, running, of his sister’s little face upturned, flushed like red gold from her games. 

The food is grey, even vegetables and roasted meat take on a monochrome tinge, overcooked and under-seasoned, slapped on a white steel plate on a white steel table in a white steel mess hall, eaten in the grim hostility of silence. He dreams of red clay beakers, polished copper pans, the brass-handled _cafetera_ on the hob in a blossom of yellow flames; of freshly-cooked cornbreads, all golden and dimpled from the griddle, filled with the savoury blue of bantha-milk cheese, tawny spice mix, scarlet and green salads.

_Study, work, duty, service. Opportunity, greater service, and its rewards. This is the only life of a true officer._

He dreams of the place he’s left to come here, of the tired eyes of the people who sent him on this mission, and the red of their blood, the dirt on their hands; their hands holding blasters, blades, briefing notes, training gear, first-aid patches. The kindness of helping him up when he falls, the sorrow telling him bad news or asking him to serve again. Their callused palms and bitten lips, their words of praise, their weary strained smiles that fill him with pride at being one of them, part of their world, part of their work.

He dreams of the green and rust-brown of the forested moon, the ancient ruins he calls home. Evening light falling through the trees, lying in waves of fire across the runway, into the temples at Massassi. Coloured ships, coming and going, pilots and ground crew in orange and blue, painted symbols on nose-cones and helmets; sunlight glancing on badges and rings and neck-chains, and in the bright eyes of a thousand races.

The days pass into weeks, grey and grim, competitive, uncommunicative. He’s very patient, Cadet Joreth Sward, plays the long game, lives on his nerves without showing a flicker, trains harder than anyone. He performs so perfectly even Instructor Clinns can find no fault. He wears his grey uniform and cropped hair with an air of such certainty no-one can see anything in him but the promise of a brilliant career. Despite where he comes from. That faint, faint trace of the wrong accent; but Sward will eradicate that, will wipe away every touch of the colour of home, become the perfect Imperial graduate. 

And slowly, and patiently, he weasels his way into a fragile truce, with the room-mate, with the other cadets; hidden from authority, though authority knows it happens it can always be denied if you hide it. They won’t develop loyalties or friendships, just acquaintance, just a fragile bond of having met and known one another; and then, very slowly, very gradually, very secretly, the conversations happen that are more than “Your turn” and “Bread, please” and “Reload”. Very slow, very patient, very hidden, and Cadet Sward hiding it best of all.

The instructors know these friendships develop, these deniable acquaintances. It always happens; the cadets are just kids, after all, fourteen, fifteen years old at most, some even younger. So long as they understand the need to keep it in its place, it will be tolerated. The ones to keep an eye on, the ones to watch for trouble, are the ones who don’t hide it well enough. So long as the boys do hide it, and never allow it to affect their studies or their training, it can be quietly ignored. So long as it isn’t loyalty. No loyalty can ever exist, save to the Emperor, the Grand Army, the Corps and the Academy.

He dreams for a whole long nightmare of a year, of every true loyalty he’s ever known, every place and every face he’s ever cared about. Rises every day to care for nothing and no-one, save the mission, and the silent, hidden, deniable connections he’s making.

When the students graduate, and less than a year later three of them go rogue and defect to the rebels, no-one ever connects them and their treason to Cadet Sward. No-one connects the loss of a KX-model droid to him either. No-one ever thinks to check his service records; no-one sees the oddities or works out that he did not in fact visit his uncle on Corulag after commencement, and is not, in fact, now a midshipman aboard the destroyer _Constrictor_ on the way to Lothal. 

He will never serve on Lothal. Will never be loyal to the grey and black and white of the Empire, never once at all. Joreth Sward lived hidden in plain sight, hidden in the grey, under the mask of his perfect duty, till he was able to slice his records and vanish.

Escaping the monochrome and the hard light, and fading like the sunset into shadows; to a forested continent on a hidden moon, to a ruined temple, a band of friends. To the hope and the welcome he’s dreamed of every night for a year; to colour and life, his friends and his truth. Homecoming.


End file.
